


Give Me Your Heart

by siinths



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Vampires, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22973281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siinths/pseuds/siinths
Summary: A goodbye has been shared between the monster and the monster hunter and they both knew it would be fate’s choice if they could meet again. They had been given a second chance to be in each others lives only to have to throw it away.Now, once again, Regis finds himself faced with that white hair and that scar, except now he is fighting against himself and other vampires to not only keep Geralt’s heart beating, but to keep it his.
Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg(Past), Geralt/Regis, Lambert/Keira Metz(Side)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILERS FOR THE WITCHER: WILD HUNT**
> 
> **Ending where:** Detlaff dies, Regis is considered a traitor to his kind and must leave. Vesemir died, Ciri is a witcher. Yen romance (but not for long), Yen and Geralt broke the spell thanks to the Jinn.  
>  **Headcanons:** Lambert and Keria are together. Vampires have mates but their mates can only be other Vampires. Regis has his usual abilities (can withstand fire/ extreme heat) but also the ability to momentarily see through his ravens eyes - his main raven is called Szymon as it’s from Polish descent like Roach and it means ‘A man who hears everything’.

Staying in Toussaint and in Geralt’s life after Dettlaff’s death, breaking his codex, gaining his anathema status and the mass slaughter of Toussaint had been a battle, a one Regis was losing. Regis couldn’t stay, it would drive him to madness with all the memories. So, he’d chosen the easiest course of action - Fleeing. Cowardly? Entirely. Rude after he’d just met Geralt again? Wholly. The right choice? Yes, by all accounts, yes. 

He needed somewhere far away, where his kin were sparser than ever and he could live out a century or two without detection. Everyday Regis spent cooped up in his hovel with his books and his plants was another day those lesser of his kin, hiding in the epicentre of vampiric activity, could mutiny and hunt him down; so moving was the best course of action. 

The paranoia of being hunted had turned into an obsession soon after Dettlaff’s death, he had began to track vampire activity in the area to the point of exhaustion - and he had a newfound respect for Orianna, despite everything, for she was a socialite that kept track of every vampire in the city. But, anyways, leaving was safer, harder yes, but safer and Regis stood absolute in that decision.

His final goodbye with Geralt had already been shared, drinking mandrake moonshine under moonlight in the most picturesque goodbye he could have imagined - not that imagining it was something he’d wanted to do. Geralt had understood, he’d been withdrawn but sympathetic that Regis couldn’t stay and they’d each agreed to stay in contact, Regis would try to hold onto that promise as much as he could but it was obvious that they would most likely lose touch. Regis’ lack of defined address and gypsy like movements weren’t easy to carry letters to and from, and as much as Geralt’s home at Corvo Bianco was indeed Geralt’s he knew that the Majordomo of the place spent more time at the estate than Geralt ever would, Geralt had committed to the path he’d been forced onto and was often missing for months at a time. 

Regis packed his tomes, looking around sadly, though he longed for his home before the Conjunction of The Spheres the small stops from city to city in which he set up still felt personal and intimate. He would miss this place of his, finding Toussaint the most homely city he’d ever lived and maybe after several centuries he could return - when the city was under new rule and the aching memories of Dettlaff lingered a little less. 

He sighed, closing the door behind him with his satchel brimming, a larger bag on his back equally as packed. He thought about stopping by Corvo Bianc to see Geralt just one more time. But he wasn’t even sure Geralt was home, or awake at such late hours of the night, and his ravens could always keep an eye out for the Witcher.

He walked stiffly along the night paths, thinking of where to go. _South? Or perhaps North?_ Who knew? He would find what he did, trusting in the fickle strings of fate much like humans. The reeds at Regis’ feet were long and thick foreshadowing an equally long journey, and the clink of vials in his bag was the only sound with each of his steps, the disgusting residual scent of blood caught on the wind and reached his nose which simply encouraged his steps from casual to desperate. He was, by all means, running away. 

He was running away from the ache of the city, he was running away from the memories of his blood brother; Dettlaff had been there for Regis when he was almost at the end of his tether, he had healed the man physically, emotionally and intimately and had nursed him back to health with considerable patience. Their connection felt strong, a little overpowering at times but always there and when it was severed Regis felt a part of him had died along with it. Because no matter Dettlaff’s black and white views on humans, no matter the mans brutish behaviour in defence of love, no matter the innocents murdered by Dettlaff, he was a good soul that was plagued by vicious exploitation.

Shame and guilt had built up in Regis’ gut as he thought of Dettlaff and the silence than now beset his mind. He snarled his pointed teeth into the biting cold air of Toussaint - angry, grieving, repulsed. The city was a while off now, apparently he had been too enwrapped in the thoughts of his beloved friend (if he was even to call him that, after all he’d done) to appreciate one final view. Dettlaff stirred up emotions in Regis that had long since been alive, anger a prominent one. He’d not wanted to take his brothers life nor have wanted to see Toussaint’s innocent civilians fall victim to blood lusted underlings, he had not wanted to reduce Dettlaff to a lifeless corpse but the man had nothing left inside of him that was, ironically enough, human. It was only a feral hate left, one that was caused by his mate nonetheless - that type of betrayal was enough to drive even the wisest vampires feral. It was common place in the vampire world to know that humans and vampires do not mix, especially mate wise. He did not believe, for a second, Sylvia was his true mate but Dettlaff had seemed so happy, so loved, when he spoke of her that he had let it slide - after all, no matter the love you bared towards a human, mates could be vampires and vampires only.

Regis, to some disgusting degree, revelled in the silence because his mind was now solely his own and there was no dull feelings of blood lust or anger that seemed ever present in Dettlaff. He was almost _glad_ and there was nothing more hideous about the entirety of the situation he’d been forced into other than that. The man who cared for him, loved him like a brother, was now gone and all Regis could do was be thankful? For a little extra quiet? He was truly, by all accounts and every bestiary definition, a monster. 

His feet took him, stewing in his thoughts, away from Toussaint. Away from one of his last remaining connections, to where? He would soon find out.


	2. Chapter 1

**10 YEARS LATER**  
Regis had sealed himself away in a cottage in the middle of nowhere with charms that hid him away from the untrained eye - which, around these parts, was everyone. There was a small village 2 miles off and that seemed to be the only civilisation for, quite literally, miles. Though his home was falling apart he could say he was making progress, he was happy to say he could finally bare the thought of Toussaint.

He’d set up a small garden outside of his hidden cottage, an even smaller washing line that hung more drying herbs than clothes and inside was nothing more than a cluttered table with a couple of barrels adored with books. It was simple and it suited the vampire nicely seeing as he rarely left. Regis was tending to his freezing crops, no more than 3 feet from his front door, when it caught on his nose. His head snapped up, Regis’ eyes flashing black before he looked around in mild panic at the scent.

It wasn’t quite human, wasn’t quite an animal and yet it wasn’t quite a monster - it smelled like the merging of vomit, oil and strong whiskey and it was entirely intoxicating. It smelt dire and caused Regis to stiffen, his fingernails sharpening an inch, his eyes sinking into their sockets and his teeth sharpening. 

It seemed there were some unspoken words, Regis’ raven flying off in the direction of the scent as Regis stumbles away from his garden and back behind the door - slamming it with enough force to cause one of the planks to crack. He rocks himself as he fights against the influence of his feral form, the scent of blood was almost enough to send him off the edge; Regis had a passing thought of sadness, knowing all his work to contain his emotions when there was bloodshed had became undone after the death of Dettlaff, and another sad thought was Dettlaff himself but that could wait. 

Black creeps in across Regis' sclera and he is no longer confined to the rubble of his home but instead he’s seeing the culprit from a birdseye eye view, his raven circling the source of such a strong scent and allowing him passage into its eyes. He can’t make out the man’s face nor hair colour thanks to some kind of hood but he can very clearly see the pendant lying to one side and the mild panic that had set in only increased tenfold. The wolf pendant only belonged to one man he knew and the possibility of that being said man, lying in a puddle of his own blood and barely moving, barely alive, caused Regis told bolt.

Regis’ form dissolves in the air, darting around the stout trees, the thick bush and the dooming cliff edges. It doesn’t take him long, after all his kind are known for their speed, and the distance of around 8 miles is closed in a matter of minutes. He sees the man, groaning quietly as thick blood runs from the underside of his body. His scent doesn’t scream ‘Geralt’, it’s far too dirty for that, he can sense more Werewolf than Forktail mutagens within him which is unlike Geralt, yet that does not settle the nerves in his stomach.

Regis reels from the sight blood, scrunching his nose and willing himself to push through the disgustingly pungent scent, to steel himself and concentrate on staying sane. He feels his blood boiling and while being immune to heat is a blessing it only means the feeling of his body burning from the inside out feels that much more foreign, when the feeling of his veins are burning inside himself reach their prime Regis has to fight his animalistic response of his more feral form, of contorting this body, his bones, to deal with the pain. The vampire lets out a low growl in his concentration, pushing back his more feral features though his eyes turn a deeper black and refuse to change.

The trickling of flowing blood pushes Regis’ resolve but as he takes deep breaths and hyper focuses on the Witcher's slowing heartbeat he regains some of his composure, realising the genuine danger for the man. As he approaches the Witcher it’s obvious he is barely conscious, barely having turned his head in the direction of Regis’ snarl.

“Oh,, for the love of-” He mutters into the ground, but Regis can only stifle a laugh - it really wasn't the time for it. The man on the ground, clutching at his pendant and going to reach for his silver sword is halted by Regis’ grasp, though he tries to remain as far away as possible from the source of blood.

“...I am not here to harm you.” Regis comments, desperately trying not to gag at the thicker scent due to their proximity. He is already in the process of turning the man on his back to expose his wound but as he turns the man over, blood pulsing out with each breath, the Witcher sits up with such speed and force only to draw his sword - shaking off Regis’ grip and in his shock the vampire lets him. 

The disorientating scent slows him considerably, nearly letting the fallen Witcher plunge the silver into his gut but he misses and Regis dissolves, re-appearing behind the man and catching his exhausted torso in his arms - his sword rattling off to the side. With the Witcher straining the very last of his energy in a last ditch attempt to slay Regis he passes out, his eyes rolling back in his head and his body convulsing gently. As calmly and quickly as the vampire can he pulls off the sleeve of his shirt and yanks the stitching straight from the fabric, as if it was tissue paper, and creates a makeshift bandage. Regis ties it firmly over one of the two claw marks stretching from the Witcher’s shoulder to hip. It was obvious the man was bleeding out, his skin turning a sickly, disturbing pale - it reminded Regis of the wraiths he’d seen lingering in graveyards.

As he goes to rip his other sleeve off to protect the other gash on the Witcher Regis hears a shriek, no doubt what had caused such a gash in the first place, and he sees a pair of brilliantly coloured feathers. Though he wasn’t too well versed in species of monster, no where near the expert level that a Witcher possessed, Regis could say with certainty that that was an Arch Griffin and a nasty one at that, flying around in search of what - Regis could only assume - was the Witcher. 

“Ah.. Not ideal.” Regis mutters, placing both hands on the man’s shoulder and focusing, it had certainly been a while since he’d expended his abilities in a way like this.

The Griffin spans it's wings, a gust of wind blowing Regis’ hair back and ruffling the Witcher’s pendant. The monster seems to spot the two, its eyes honing in on the pooling blood and its head turning to the side, curious as what its prey was doing. Though that curiosity doesn’t last, another shriek rattling Regis’ ears before its feathered body leans forward and without hesitance, swoops.

It’s deadly claws grasp for them but only meet damp ground. They’re gone, Regis’ form disintegrating into a black mist and the Witcher’s following suit. The only evidence that anyone had tread this far into the forest is the pool of blood, still wet, and the silver blade of a Witcher.


End file.
